


Just Like That River I've Been Running

by miss_begonia



Category: American Idol RPF, Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M, Phone Sex, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/pseuds/miss_begonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon realizes he tends to think of Adam in the language of music: as a bright melody underlied with thumping bass, pretty but insistent and impossible to ignore. He never thought about him in terms of labels or categories or boxes. He thought of him as that guy who sang Sam Cooke like he meant it, like Brendon’s always wanted to sing it but never felt he knew how.</p><p>He thinks maybe Adam is the kind of guy who confuses people. And he doesn’t know what he thinks about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like That River I've Been Running

_the lord respects me when I’m working hard  
but he loves me when I sing  
(jeff black – sunday best)_  
  
  
Boredom can be an amazing motivator sometimes.   
  
It’s Ryan’s idea. It’s Ryan’s idea because Ryan is a  _dick_  who enjoys seeing Brendon make a fool of himself in public, and is also a little drunk by the time they leave the house. But what he says – because Ryan always has an explanation for everything, even if the explanation is straight-up ridiculous – is, “We should get to know this city better.”  
  
And that’s how they end up at a place called Mark’s in West Hollywood. Ryan is wearing some tweaked outfit involving paisley under a leather jacket and boots and approximately sixty-four bracelets, but Brendon opts for jeans and a t-shirt, because why should he be uncomfortable and look like an idiot? But everyone around them is clad in some variation of tight and sparkly, and he feels decidedly out-glammed. He situates himself in a corner at a table and orders a strong drink and watches Ryan flirt with some girl at the bar who seems to think he’s hilarious. She must have been pre-gaming. Ryan is never that funny.  
  
Perhaps Brendon is being unfair. He moved here awhile ago, but he hasn’t quite found his footing in L.A. yet, and places like this only intensify those itchy feelings. He glances around the packed club and the people laughing and drinking and dancing and he feels like some lame high school wallflower. He thought he’d be over that now – after the double-platinum album and winning a VMA and doing the cover of  _Rolling Stone_  – but hey, apparently not.   
  
“This seat taken?” someone asks behind him. The light is dim, so all he sees is the faint outline of a tall guy with spiked hair.   
  
“No,” Brendon says, because he doesn’t think Ryan is coming back, the loser. He’s still having inexplicably good luck with the girl at the bar.  
  
“Cool,” the guy says. “I won’t be here long.”  
  
Brendon doesn’t know what he means, but he doesn’t have time to ponder – at that moment the crackle of mic static emanates from the stage, followed by the high whine of feedback.   
  
“We’ve got a special guest tonight –  _fuck_.”  
  
There’s a smattering of laughter as the M.C. – clad in slim silver pants and a gauzy black shirt – wrestles with the mic until it cooperates.  
  
“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted,” the M.C. huffs, “we’ve got a special guest tonight. He’s an alum of Upright Cabaret, so you may have seen him here before. But it is more likely that you’ve seen him on a certain TV show—”  
  
The club explodes in applause, and Brendon notices the guy next to him is hunching over, a small smile curling his lips.  
  
“—so get your famous butt up here, Adam Lambert,” the M.C. says, “and sing us a song.”  
  
The applause gets louder, and the guy rises from his seat. He’s really tall and broad, his blue-green eyes are lined with black, and he’s wearing the tightest jeans Brendon has ever seen.   
  
He makes his way to the stage and gives the M.C. a big hug before taking the mic from him.   
  
“Hi, everyone,” he says.   
  
He sounds kind of shy. This is pretty funny coming from a huge dude wearing eyeliner and pants that would garner an R rating if viewed in most cineplexes. But he’s ducking his head and brushing dark hair out of his eyes and it’s sort of adorable, like the world’s sweetest Siberian tiger has just taken the stage.  
  
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he says, “because a lot of people who are here tonight have been supportive from the very beginning, and—”  
  
“Oh my God, just sing the song, Lambert!” someone heckles from the back, and there’s some giggles and cat calls.  
  
“Fine.  _Fine_ ,” Adam says, and smiles.   
  
Brendon thinks,  _Wow_. Adam’s whole face transforms when he smiles, and suddenly he seems almost…approachable. Like a Siberian tiger who would let you pet him.  
  
When Adam starts to sing, it’s quiet and soft at first, then builds and builds.   
  
 _All around me are familiar faces  
worn out places  
worn out faces_  
  
Brendon remembers watching  _Donnie Darko_  and thinking this song was so incredibly sad on this hopeless, deep level he could hardly wrap his mind around. Yet he loved it, because it was impossible to listen to it and  _not_  feel something – and what was the point of music if not that, really.  
  
The way Adam sings it, Brendon feels it under his fingernails – like maybe it hurts Adam to sing it, but he does it anyway. Brendon remembers all those months singing “Camisado” every night on tour, how he’d look at Ryan and his throat would ache but he’d sing through it, keep singing because there wasn’t any other way to tell Ryan,  _I’m so sorry, man, I’m so so sorry._  
  
Brendon envies how much control Adam has over his voice, how he can go from this sweet, smooth  _hello teacher tell me what’s my lesson_  to a piercing, high  _look right through me_  that he holds for an epically long time. Brendon’s got decent vocal control; he’s damn proud of it too, because he worked hard at it and the learning curve was a bitch, but Adam’s one of those annoying people who makes it look easy and natural and effortless.   
  
At the end of the song Adam lets the last note disappear into the night, and there’s a pause where Brendon can almost hear the entire crowded club take in a deep breath, share the air between them.  
  
Then the audience bursts into applause, and Ryan’s there, randomly, plunking his bony butt down next to Brendon and whispering in his ear, “Hey, this dude can sing!”  
  
Brendon wants to smack him because of course this dude can sing. That’s like saying Serena Williams can sort of swing a tennis racket.  
  
“He’s amazing,” Brendon says.  
  
Ryan laughs and says, “Whoa, whoa, stop drooling,” and seriously, why does Brendon hang out with this guy, ever.  
  
“I’m gonna talk to him,” Brendon decides, rising to his feet, and Ryan raises an eyebrow. “Like, from one singer to another.”   
  
It sounded completely sensible in his own head.  
  
“This isn’t going to be like that time with—” Ryan starts to say, and Brendon is already shaking his head. Jesus, one time he tried to chat with Britney Spears at the VMAs, and he wasn’t even that much of a stalker about it. She said he was “cute,” and Brendon’s pretty sure that had nothing to do with the large amount of drugs she had possibly just taken.  
  
Adam’s left the stage and is chatting with a couple of guys wearing striking combinations of leather and lace, laughing and looking like he’s having a generally good time.   
  
Now that Brendon’s here he’s not sure how to approach this whole situation. What’s he going to say?  _Hey, I’m the dude you sat next to for like three seconds? ‘Suuuup?_  
  
“Hey,” Adam says, and Brendon makes some sort of dumb gesture to indicate,  _Who, me?_  Adam smiles at him and beckons and Brendon shuffles forward.  
  
“Guys,” Adam says, “this is that guy from Panic at the Disco.”  
  
And that – that Brendon was not expecting.   
  
“Oh, oh my God,” one of the guys says, and paws at Brendon somewhat enthusiastically. “You used to wear the most adorable outfits. Like the – do you remember that magazine when you were all dressed up like—”  
  
“Clockwork Orange!” Adam exclaims. “I love that movie.”  
  
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “That was a lot of fun.”  
  
“We just did this video for  _Idol_  with the guy – what was his name – he did your first video, I think?”  
  
 _Idol_ , Brendon thinks, processing.  _This guy is on American Idol?_  
  
“You did a video with Shane Drake?” Brendon says.  
  
“Yeah, and he dressed us all up like he dressed you guys!” Adam laughs. “Apparently he’s a one-look kind of dude.”  
  
“He’s kind of a creep,” Brendon says, before he can stop himself.  
  
“Yeah, no fucking kidding,” Adam says. “I thought he was going to try to  _eat_  Kris.”  
  
“Kris?” Brendon asks.  
  
“Kris Allen. He’s tiny, cute and Southern,” Adam says. “Shane looked at him like he was a tasty appetizer. Kris was so completely oblivious, too.”  
  
“He’s lucky, then,” Brendon says.   
  
“Kris is lucky he has no idea half the things people are thinking about him,” Adam says.  
  
“Like you, honey?” one of the guys says, poking Adam in the ribs. Adam doubles over, laughing harder.  
  
“Adam wouldn’t mind having Kris as his tiny Southern snack,” the guy explains.   
  
“Adam wants you to shut the fuck up, Brad,” Adam drawls. “Adam has a lot of things he could tell his new friend about you that you don’t want the whole world to know.”  
  
“I wanted to tell you that you were incredible up there,” Brendon blurts out. “I didn’t know you were going to be here tonight, but—I’m so glad I came.”  
  
Adam’s eyes are an intense aqua in this light. He’s looking at Brendon like he’s trying to figure him out. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name—”  
  
“Brendon,” Brendon says, and holds out his hand. Adam takes it and grasps it firmly.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Brendon,” Adam says. “I love L.A. You never know who you’re gonna meet.”  
  
“That is so true,” Brendon says. He feels a bit breathless.  
  
  
*  
  
Brendon wakes up the next morning to his phone buzzing. His mouth is dry and he slept on his arm funny; his skin prickles as he shifts. He crawls over to his nightstand and captures his phone in one palm. “’lo?”  
  
“Hey, loser,” Spencer says. “Do you have a Ryan Ross on your couch? Because I need one.”  
  
“The one, the only,” Brendon says, then coughs.  
  
“Did I wake you up?” Spencer says. “It’s past eleven. I don’t feel bad.”  
  
 _Jesus_. They were out pretty late last night, but Brendon hadn’t planned on sleeping in like this. He’d planned to be productive and write and not waste his entire day in bed. Do whatever it is he does for a living.  
  
“Am I an answering service now?” Brendon asks.  
  
“You know he’s not answering his own phone,” Spencer says. “So can you wake him up and kindly remind him he’s supposed to be going shopping with me today for South Africa?”  
  
“Okay,” Brendon says, and pads downstairs, cradling the phone next to his ear. “What did you do last night with Pete?”  
  
“Watched a movie, played with BX,” Spencer says. “Did you smoke all of Ryan’s weed?”  
  
“Not all of it,” Brendon says, though that could be a lie.  
  
He nudges Ryan with his toe. He’s sprawled across Brendon’s couch, faceplanted on the cushions with one arm thrown out to the side in a position that looks very uncomfortable. Ryan always sleeps like he’s practicing to be an unconscious contortionist.  
  
“Hey,” Brendon says. “Ross. Phone.”  
  
Ryan makes some snuffling sounds and curls into a ball.  
  
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Spencer says. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”  
  
The phone goes dead, and Brendon tosses it onto the coffee table. “RYAN,” he says loudly. “GET UP GET UP GET UP.”  
  
“Fuck,” Ryan states, and blinks up at Brendon. “Why are you such an asshole?”  
  
“Spence says you’re going shopping,” Brendon says. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”  
  
“I can’t believe I shared my weed with you,” Ryan mourns, fumbling on the coffee table for his lighter.  
  
“You’re a good friend,” Brendon says. “Now get off my couch. You, unlike Spencer, have your own place to sleep in.”  
  
“Hey, hey,” Ryan mumbles, rubbing at one eye. “There’s a card there, in my jacket pocket. This dude said to give it to you.”  
  
Brendon slips his hand into the pocket of Ryan’s leather jacket and sure enough, there’s a card. It says  _Upright Cabaret_  on one side with the phone number and address of Mark’s, but on the back, there’s a note.  
  
 _No matter how this Idol thing pans out, L.A. is my home. Call me, let’s hang out. –Adam_  
  
Underneath is his number in tiny, precise print.   
  
 _Huh_ , Brendon thinks.  
  
*  
  
Brendon’s life kicks into hyperdrive over the next few days – he’s got to fly out to Michigan for this concert for the Coke promo thing he’s got going on, and then he’s off to South Africa for ten days. The Michigan gig passes in a total blur – rehearsal to publicity to concert, on a plane, off a plane, sleep treated as purely optional. The flurry of activity feels strange and unfamiliar, and yet also  _right_. He likes it. He likes being busy again, knowing where his day is going when he wakes up in the morning, having places to be.  
  
The trip to South Africa has been in the works for months, but Brendon still doesn’t feel ready for it. It’s been awhile since they’ve packed their stuff into bags and onto buses for tour, and Brendon is out of practice. He’s glad he’s got Zack there keeping him on track, reminding of him where he needs to be, making sure he doesn’t do something boneheaded like miss his flight or leave his passport in some hotel room drawer.   
  
“Nice of you to join us,” Ryan says when Brendon meets them all at Heathrow. Ryan’s reading  _Gonzo_  for the sixty-third time and wearing huge round sunglasses that practically eclipse his face.  
  
“Yeah, I know you missed me,” Brendon says lightly, but Ryan just stares at him, eyes huge and blank. Spencer changes the subject to something about drumsticks and Brendon nods along, watching Ryan’s fingers twitch against his thigh.  
  
South Africa is a long way away. On the flight from London to Cape Town, he reads a book about Johnny Cash, but gets bored halfway through the description of Johnny’s second descent into addiction and flicks on the TV instead.  
  
“Nothing on,” Spencer says sleepily. Brendon flips through the channels: random cake baking challenge on the Food Network, CNN talking about an earthquake in Italy, some overly made-up chicks being bitchy to each other on a VH1 reality show.   
  
He finds himself watching  _American Idol_. He has his reasons, okay?  _American Idol_  is like a pop music showcase, a conglomeration of all the catchiest songs the music world has to offer. These songs are often badly performed, of course, but that’s useful for Brendon too – a guide on what not to do on stage. It’s all very educational.  
  
This week is the Year-You-Were-Born episode – Brendon is kind of jealous, because  _The Joshua Tree_  came out the year he was born, and seriously, how fucking awesome would it be to sing “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” on  _American Idol_? Brendon could kill on that song.   
  
Most of it is kind of terrible, though – tepid and boring. There’s a misguided version of “What’s Love Got to Do With It?” and Kris Allen falls apart in the pit singing Don Henley, which – hell, Brendon could have advised him not to sing that song surrounded by a crowd of people. The acoustics are going to be fucked.   
  
But then at the end Adam appears on stage wearing all white, lit by misty blue light, and sings “Mad World.” He saw him do it just a few days ago and it’s still amazing. It’s the kind of amazing that makes Brendon want to give up singing. Adam’s voice is beautiful and sweet and ethereal and haunting, and Brendon can feel his skin prickle when Adam hits the highest notes.   
  
He thinks,  _I have his number_.  
  
He presses his hand to the inside of his elbow, running his fingers over the goosebumps.  
  
  
*  
  
South Africa is crazy, huge and gorgeous and completely foreign. There are mountains and desert and beaches and a hundred million plants and animals Brendon’s never seen before. They smoke up outside the hotel where they’re staying and watch the sun set behind the ocean, and it’s the best Brendon’s felt in a long time.  
  
“Holy shit, you guys,” Jon says, voice low and mellow with smoke. “This is a different ocean. We’re looking at an ocean we’ve never seen before.”  
  
“That is so true,” Ryan says, and passes the joint to Brendon.  
  
“I think it’s just a different part of the Atlantic,” Brendon says.  
  
Ryan stares at Brendon with wide, sleepy eyes. “You’re such a downer.”  
  
“I am not,” Brendon says.   
  
He thinks Ryan is joking, but he’s not sure, and it hurts.  
  
“It could be the Indian Ocean,” Spencer says. “We could be looking at the exact place where the two oceans meet.”  
  
“Yeah,” Jon says, and then, a moment later, “Yeah!” as if he’s just realized something.  
  
*  
  
Brendon needed this. He needed to be somewhere other than L.A., to inhabit a different space for awhile, to be displaced. Everything feels exciting and new and special.  
  
He loves going on the safari, seeing the lion slink by their Jeep, watching the way Ryan’s mouth drops open when the lion brushes by them, haughty and fierce and  _so fucking close_. Nothing impresses Ryan much anymore. It’s pretty cool.  
  
They hit one bump in the road at the concert in Johannesburg. Brendon’s tired and maybe more stoned than he should be, and he forgets the lyrics to “Northern Downpour.” He doesn’t mean to do it! He’s never made that mistake before, and he feels like a tool.  
  
After the show, Ryan corners him in their dressing room. He’s got a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his eyes are burning.  
  
“Jesus, Brendon,” Ryan says. “Fuck up a little more, please.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Brendon says. “It was a mistake, everybody makes mistakes—”  
  
“The lyrics are important to that song,” Ryan says. “They’re the most important—“  
  
“Dude, I know, every word you write is precious,” Brendon snaps, and okay, maybe it was an asshole thing to say, but Ryan’s being a douchebag.  
  
“People like the lyrics,” Ryan says, his voice cold. “I’m pretty sure they’d like to hear you sing them.”  
  
Brendon picks at the seam of his jeans.   
  
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.  
  
He wonders why he feels like he’s always apologizing to Ryan, why he’s always the one doing something wrong. Maybe it’s because Ryan’s always been the boss of the rest of them, somehow – the one in charge.   
  
Brendon’s so tired of following all of Ryan’s rules.  
  
  
*  
  
The plane ride back to the States is tense. Maybe it’s the combination of exhaustion and nerves, the frantic up-and-down of the last few weeks. Maybe it’s sharing a small space together when they haven’t done it in months.   
  
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Brendon’s just projecting.  
  
“What’re you listening to?” Brendon asks Ryan, settling down next to him in the seat Spencer vacated, gone to hang with Zack.   
  
Ryan plucks his earphones out of his ears, flushing slightly.  
  
“Uh,” Ryan says. “Nothing.”  
  
“Nothing?” Brendon asks. “Total silence?”  
  
“Nothing important,” Ryan says. “Just some stuff I’ve been messing around with in the studio.”  
  
Brendon didn’t know Ryan was recording anything. It’s not unusual for them to all experiment separately with new material, but they’ve always told each other about it – usually in low, excited voices over the phone like they’re sharing state secrets.  
  
“Can I hear it?” Brendon asks.  
  
“It’s not really finished,” Ryan says quickly, eyes trained on his lap.  
  
Shut down. They sit in silence for a few moments, Brendon staring at his sneakers, still smudged with safari dirt.  
  
“I think this time it should be different,” Brendon says.   
  
He means the album, the music, the process. Different, because they are different – because they’ve all changed.  
  
Ryan gives him a long, unreadable look.  
  
“But what if nobody likes different?” Ryan asks.  
  
Brendon opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. What is there to say?   
  
They sit together for a good hour without talking until Spencer comes back to reclaim his seat. Brendon pretends to read Ryan’s copy of some British music magazine he purchased at the London airport, but mostly he sulks and bites his fingernails and thinks,  _We didn’t used to keep secrets_  and  _I think you used to be my friend._  
  
*  
  
Brendon sleeps for approximately three days off and on, trying to shake the jet lag, and wakes up on day three to his cell phone humming a jaunty little tune next to his ear.  
  
“What,” he growls into the phone.  
  
“Dude,” Spencer says, “are you still sleeping?”  
  
“Yes,” Brendon says.  
  
“That’s not cool,” Spencer says. “You should wake up.”  
  
Brendon thinks:  _I should wake up_. It sounds important and deep.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Brendon says, and rouses himself enough to take a shower and attempt to impersonate a human being, which mostly involves eating Hot Pockets from his nearly empty freezer and watching TV for six hours straight.  
  
Somehow Brendon finds himself watching  _American Idol_  again on the DVR, and oh God, it’s disco week. Brendon doesn’t know why he does this to himself, but he can’t muster enough energy to move off his couch.  
  
Most people suck, but Kris Allen does a surprisingly decent version of “She Works Hard for the Money.” It’s kind of low-key and groovy, and Brendon thinks he may have underestimated that dude.   
  
Adam is, as usual, flawless. He does a slowed-down rendition of “If I Can’t Have You,” and he makes the song sound like the lovesick ballad it is, not some giddy dance song. Brendon rewinds and watches it four times before he starts to scare himself a little.  
  
 _What am I waiting for?_  he thinks, and reaches for his phone.  
  
But that’s when Spencer decides to return, lugging a bag full of groceries with the dogs trailing behind, barking and sniffing and running around. He gets involved in an extended conversation about how the car wash may have dented Spencer’s car, and by the time Spencer throws his hands up and huffs that he’s going to bed, it’s past ten.  
  
When Brendon finally calls the next morning, he feels like a high schooler who’s trying to get a girl to go with him to homecoming. His palms are sweating. He thinks,  _Adam has it_ , but he’s not sure what that means.  
  
“Hello?” a gruff voice comes on the line that does not sound like Adam. Brendon almost hangs up, thinking,  _Very funny, Ryan, haha_. But Ryan is not nearly motivated enough to prank him like this.  
  
“Hello, is Adam there?” he asks politely. “This is Brendon. Urie?”  
  
There’s some shuffling in the background, and then—  
  
“Brendon?”  
  
Adam sounds raspy, like he’s just woken up.  
  
“H-hey,” Brendon says. “I’m sorry if this is a bad time, I didn’t mean to—”  
  
“You’re not interrupting anything,” Adam says, and there’s some muffled indignant sounds in the background. “You’re hilarious. Go make me some breakfast.”  
  
“What?” Brendon says.  
  
“Oh, nothing,” Adam says. “Kris is kind of a jerk in the morning. What’s up? I didn’t think you were going to call.”  
  
“I was in South Africa for a few weeks,” Brendon explains.  
  
“Oh, wow, that’s awesome!” Adam says. “You play a show there?”  
  
“Yup,” Brendon says.   
  
Adam sighs. “I’m so jealous. So did you want to hang out?”  
  
 _From one singer to another_ , Brendon thinks.   
  
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “I do.”  
  
“I have to go shopping for next week’s show,” Adam says. “Want to come with?”  
  
Brendon glances down at his faded plaid sleep pants and holey t-shirt.   
  
“Uh,” Brendon says. “Sure, let’s do it.”  
  
*  
  
Shopping with Adam is not really shopping. It’s more of an Olympic sport.  
  
“Whoa, whoa,” Brendon says. “Slow down, the clothes are not going anywhere.”  
  
“That’s what you think,” Adam says, and pounces on a pair of white shoes that shine so brightly Brendon has to squint.  
  
“What look are you going for exactly?”  
  
“Frank Sinatra,” Adam says, “on steroids.”  
  
Brendon eyes the shoes. “Well, those could work.”  
  
Adam looks up at him, giving him a slender smile. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”  
  
“No way,” Brendon says, very seriously. “It’s just that fashion’s never been my thing. I’m admiring your tenacity.”  
  
“Sort of a shame,” Adam says, eyes flicking up and down Brendon's frame. “You’ve got one of those bodies where everything probably looks good on you. You’re like Kris.”  
  
Brendon straightens, trying to look taller. “I am not as tiny as Kris.”  
  
“You’re all midgets to me,” Adam says, and Brendon smacks him on the arm, making Adam yelp. “ _Violent_  midgets, apparently.”  
  
“I am not that short,” Brendon says.  
  
“You’re not that short, no,” Adam says. “But you’re not that tall, either.”  
  
Brendon pouts.  
  
“You’re a perfect size,” Adam says, rolling his eyes. “I was trying to give you a compliment, you idiot. You know how much I wish I was all…proportional the way you are?”  
  
“You’ve got fine proportions,” Brendon says, and Adam does: he’s all long and broad and big enough to be a bit scary. Brendon’s always wanted to be like that. Nobody’s ever scared of Brendon.  
  
Adam wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Brendon shoves him hard enough to make him drop the shoes.  
  
*  
  
Adam signals the waiter for more water. They’re having lunch at this fancy place in Brentwood – Adam suggested it, said one of his friends thought it was fantastic. It is fantastic, but Brendon feels self-conscious here, like he’s too…not Hollywood. He spent twenty minutes this morning just trying to decide what jeans to wear. He’s not sure what this means about him, or the state of his life, or the state of his  _mind_.  
  
“It’s not that we don’t have any ideas,” Brendon explains. “I don’t know. It’s just – it’s not coming together.”  
  
“So you’re not meshing,” Adam says. “Your ideas are too different?”  
  
“Yeah, or maybe they’re all just douchebags,” Brendon says. “Wait – I didn’t mean that.”  
  
Adam laughs. “You are definitely confused.”  
  
Brendon takes a sip of his water, watching the way Adam’s black-lacquered nails tap against the side of his wine glass. Adam ordered wine with lunch, Brendon ordered a Coke, and now Brendon feels like an idiot.  
  
“Yes,” Brendon says. “I’m confused.”  
  
Adam arches an eyebrow. “Do you have ideas that appeal to you particularly? That you’re really into?”  
  
“I think my inclination is always to go more pop,” Brendon says. “Like – we did this second album that was all 60s Beatles-influenced, and that’s cool, but I want to make music people can dance to, not just get high to.”  
  
“But all your bandmates want to do—”  
  
“—is get high,” Brendon says. “And I am totally okay with getting wasted, because I am so not straight-edge or whatever, but I also think there’s something to be said for making music when you’re sober and can appreciate what you’re doing, how things are put together, you know? And—”  
  
Brendon stops, noticing the way that Adam is watching him – amused, but also curious, like he’s learning something.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Brendon says. “I’m all, like,  _blah blah blah_  – you’ve been so nice to listen to me, but—”  
  
“I like listening to you,” Adam says.  
  
He sips his wine and says nothing else, and Brendon thinks maybe he’s missing something, because none of his friends seem to like listening to him much. Even Shane tells him to shut up when he starts monologuing, and Ryan just stares at him with those big, blank eyes until he stops talking.  
  
“Jesus, Brendon,” Adam says, with a light laugh. “You’re looking at me like I just told you I killed someone.”  
  
Brendon can feel the sweat collecting at the base of his spine. “I—”  
  
“Don’t freak out, okay?” Adam says. “Or don’t freak out more?”  
  
Adam reaches across the table and grasps Brendon’s hand – gently, a careful touch – but Brendon is startled nonetheless.  
  
“I was only saying that I like you,” Adam says. “I like hearing you talk about music. You talk about it like it’s your whole life. It’s my whole life too.”  
  
 _Yes_ , Brendon thinks.  _Yes_.  
  
Suddenly it all makes a bit more sense – how Adam seemed so right up there on stage, so comfortable. Brendon knows what that’s like, because he’s been there - in that warm sweet spot where everything feels right.  
  
“Don’t be sorry for caring about something,” Adam says. “Fuck people who make you feel bad about caring.”  
  
*  
  
Brendon goes home and curls up on his bed and slips his earphones in and listens to Queen for an entire hour. He wishes he could curl up in Freddie Mercury’s voice, let the sound embrace him.  
  
Spencer pokes his head in around six pm.   
  
“Dinner?” he asks.  
  
“I’m not hungry,” Brendon says.  
  
“Are you okay, dude?”  
  
“Fine,” Brendon says, though he is anything but fine. He’s tired, and annoyed and frustrated, and he wants to call Adam just to have him give him another pep talk, but he doesn’t want Adam to, like, get a restraining order, so he hangs up, starts the Queen CD over again, turns over and waits for things to stop sucking quite so much.  
  
*  
  
The next few weeks pass in a malaise. Brendon gets up in the morning, goes surfing, sometimes drags Spencer along, tries to eat normal people food, plays with the dogs, hangs out with Shane, talks to Pete.   
  
Then Spencer goes to Vegas for a few weeks, and Brendon sinks into a deep, paralyzing boredom. He spends an entire week listening to his record collection in alphabetical order, from the Animals to Frank Zappa – he’s hoping for some kind of musical revelation, but by the end of it he feels more tired and overwhelmed than ever. He lies in the middle of his living room carpet and stares at the ceiling until his vision gets fuzzy and everything is a pale haze.  
  
He talks to Adam a lot on the phone and via text, catching him in between his various  _American Idol_  obligations. Adam’s so busy, and Brendon’s sort of jealous. Brendon wants to  _do_  something. So he strums guitar melodies for Adam over speakerphone while Adam’s waiting around in the studio or backstage, happy to have an audience for a moment – even if it’s only an audience of one.  
  
They’re drawing closer to the finale, and it would make sense for Adam to be nervous, but he doesn’t seem to be.  
  
“I don’t know, it’s just – it’s all about the exposure, right?” Adam says. “I don’t need to win. I think I can still get a record deal out of this.”  
  
At this point, Brendon thinks Adam’s record deal is pretty much guaranteed.   
  
“Sure,” he says. “But don’t you want to win?”  
  
There’s a long pause.  
  
“Yeah, I guess so,” Adam says. “Everyone wants to win. But I want people to hear me more than I want to win. So as long as I’m still on the show, I think I’m winning.”  
  
“I think you’re definitely winning,” Brendon says. “Personally I think you’re kicking ass and taking names.”  
  
“You’re sweet,” Adam says, laughing. “How’s the songwriting going?”  
  
Brendon doesn’t know how to answer that question. Sometimes he writes lyrics in pencil on a legal pad that he later erases or tosses in the recycling bin. Sometimes he texts Ryan and gets no response. Sometimes he spends whole days feeling like a loser.   
  
Those are the days when winning feels important.  
  
“I don’t know,” Brendon says.  
  
Adam is quiet on the other end. He knows Adam is thinking, and he wishes he knew about what. He wishes he would tell him, help Brendon unravel the snarled yarn of his life.  
  
*  
  
Vegas had showgirls and casinos, but it didn’t have the water. This is the thing Brendon loves best about L.A. – the ocean licking at the miles of coastline, waves curling and crashing into soaked-through sand. Every morning he can Brendon drives to the beach and yanks his board out of the back of his car and pads over the sand to the water. The first contact with the water is always frigid and shocking, even through the wetsuit, but Brendon loves it.   
  
He thinks:  _You should wake up_.  
  
This morning the sun is so bright it makes starbursts appear in his peripheral vision. Brendon squints and paddles out and floats, laying on his board. He wonders, oddly, what Ryan is doing right now. He’s probably still sleeping. Ryan always hated getting up early.  
  
There was one morning Brendon remembers, though – it was the morning before they began their cross-country drive to Maryland to record  _Fever_. None of them slept the night before, too wound up and anxious to relax. Brendon and Ryan climbed up onto the roof of Spencer’s house and watched the sun rise, sunlight curving over the horizon like fingers on guitar strings.  
  
 _Do you ever think that this is, like, completely insane?_  Brendon said.  _We have a record deal, Ryan.  
  
Yeah_ , Ryan said, picking at the peeling heel of his shoe,  _but insane is what the world is._  
  
Ryan used to make a lot of sense. To Brendon, anyway.  
  
Brendon wades out of the water without actually catching a wave. He finds his cell phone cheerfully playing “Thanks For the Memories” in the front seat when he returns to his car, and flips it open with still-wet fingers.  
  
“So what I think,” Pete says, with no preamble, “is that you guys should come on the Blink tour with us.”  
  
Brendon’s hands start to sweat. Pete’s been saying stuff like this forever,  _dudes, you should tour with us again, you should totally_ , but it’s always been friendly and theoretical, flattering but not feasible. But this time Pete sounds serious.  
  
“We would love that,” Brendon says, though he knows he no longer speaks for the band, if he ever did.  
  
“I’ll talk to Mark, we’ll make it happen,” Pete says. “They’re making the announcement in a few days.”  
  
“Seriously, man, this is awesome,” Brendon says. “You think Mark will be down?”  
  
“Are you kidding, Mark loves you guys,” Pete says. “We need to get you all back on tour. Surfing is cool, but it’s not a career, Bden.” He pauses as if he’s trying to conjure up more wisdom, then says, “Over and out.”  
  
Brendon texts Ryan:  _dude pete wants us to tour with blink_. He gets no response.  
  
He texts Spencer and Jon the same, and gets a phone call two minutes later.  
  
“Holy shit,” Spencer says. “Really?”  
  
“Really,” Brendon says. “This is happening.”  
  
“It really is,” Spencer says.  
  
*  
  
On the night of the  _American Idol_  finale performances, Brendon has to go to a Blink-182 tour party. Brendon genuinely likes the dudes in Blink, but he hates these orchestrated media events where he has to smile and play celebrity and get his picture taken. He’s never quite gotten used to it, having the camera shoved in his face. And Brendon likes attention. He just likes it more when he’s doing something to deserve it.  
  
He wishes he were more like Adam. Adam’s so good at dealing with all that: fielding questions, being gracious and humble while simultaneously keeping people interested. Brendon tends to fumble around when reporters or fans put him on the spot. Suddenly he’s that same kid he was in high school, the one everyone made fun of: the dorky misfit who could play any instrument but couldn’t sit still. Maybe he will always be that kid.   
  
He tries to imagine Adam in high school and comes up blank. He knows Adam was into theater, that he was blond and didn’t wear make-up.  _I was kind of the weird kid_ , Adam says, but Brendon doesn’t quite believe him – he seems so put together now, so complete the way he is, that it’s hard to imagine a before.  
  
“Are you nervous?” Brendon asks him over the phone that afternoon, right before the show is set to film. He’s trying to find something to wear, but he only owns one suit jacket, so the pickings are slim.  
  
“You always ask me that,” Adam says. “I guess so. I don’t know. It’s the top two. What have I got to lose? I’m performing in the finale either way.”  
  
“True,” Brendon says.  
  
“It wouldn’t be bad if Kris won,” Adam says. “I love Kris, and he’s amazing. He deserves it just as much as I do.”  
  
Brendon doesn’t think that’s true. He likes Kris too, from what he’s seen of him on the show, but Adam and Kris are not playing in the same league. No one is playing in Adam’s league. Adam invented his own league, and he plays by his own rules. Kris is completely competent and charming and knows his shit, but Adam is beyond that. He is an original talent.  
  
“You sound like you’re trying to talk yourself into something,” Brendon says.  
  
Adam sighs. “Maybe, yeah.”  
  
“You’re going to do great,” Brendon says. “Call me when you’re done, okay?”  
  
“I will,” Adam says. “Enjoy your party.”  
  
“Mmm,” Brendon says, and hangs up.  
  
Spencer texts him a few moments later:  _b back soon ryan and jon not coming_.  
  
Brendon’s not surprised. He’s stopped expecting them to come to anything band-related – or anything, really. They don’t rehearse together. They don’t talk. Spencer’s not talking about it either, and sometimes Brendon wants to call bullshit so badly he has to bite his lip to keep himself quiet.   
  
The party is like every other tour party Brendon’s ever been to. Pete and Mark are chatty and excited, and Brendon and Spencer smile for the cameras and drink their expensive beers. Spencer keeps his hand on Brendon’s arm for much of the evening like he’s afraid Brendon might make a break for it.   
  
Brendon nearly does. He watches the clock and makes polite conversation and misses people. He misses Ryan and his ugly paisley shirts and the goofy faces he makes when he gets stoned. He misses Jon and his quiet, secretive smile and his corny puns. He misses hanging out and having inside jokes and making music.   
  
God, he misses making music. He misses it so much.  
  
“I need to get out of here,” he tells Spencer.  
  
Spencer eyes him. “Are you okay?”  
  
“I’m fine,” Brendon says. “I just – it doesn’t feel right. This doesn’t feel—“  
  
Spencer’s hand clenches around Brendon’s arm. “I know,” he says. “I get it. Go. I’ll hang here with Pete.”  
  
Brendon catches a cab home. He watches the L.A. skyline peel by his window, palm trees and red tile roofs and distant mountains – and misses home.  
  
The second he gets back to his townhouse he flicks on the TV and clicks through his DVR and chooses  _American Idol_.  
  
Turns out Adam’s singing “A Change is Gonna Come.” Brendon’s heartbeat trips and stumbles.   
  
 _Sam Cooke_ , Brendon thinks.  _He didn’t tell me he was singing Sam Cooke._  
  
Adam’s suit is silver-grey and his hair is dark and spiky and his eyes burn. He sings like this is his last day on earth, like he’s got one last chance to make the world right.   
  
 _i was born by the river  
in a little tent  
and like that river i’ve been running   
ever since_  
  
He’s perfect and beautiful. Brendon’s throat aches and his jaw hurts and he’s crying on the inside – that deep, secret sort of crying he does sometimes when he wants a release he doesn’t know how to ask for.   
  
He calls Adam, but is surprised when he actually picks up. Brendon figured he’d be busy with post-finale interviews and whatever else, but he’s there, and he sounds hoarse, but happy.   
  
“Hey,” Adam says. “What’s up?”   
  
Brendon hangs up. He thinks:  _You don’t need this right now. You don’t need me—  
  
r u ok?_  Adam texts him a few minutes later.   
  
Brendon texts him back,  _just watched & you were unbelievable. you are a winner for sure._  
  
*  
  
But Adam doesn’t win, and the next night when Brendon calls, Adam’s phone goes directly to voice mail. He leaves a message: “You were fantastic tonight. Please call me whenever, doesn’t matter how late.”  
  
Brendon is asleep when Adam finally calls – it’s maybe 3 am.  
  
“Hey,” Brendon rasps into the phone.  
  
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” Adam whispers. “I shouldn’t have called, you were totally sleeping—“  
  
“No, no, man, I’m glad you called,” Brendon says. “I wanted to talk to you. You were so – you sang with Kiss and Queen. That was badass.”  
  
“Yeah,” Adam says. “I’m sort of still processing it. None of this seems real.”  
  
Adam sounds sad. Brendon pushes himself up on his elbows, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.   
  
“Are you – I mean, about winning—“  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Adam says, and it’s the same thing he’s said for weeks now, but tonight it sounds hollow. It sounds like a lie.  
  
“You’re gonna get a record deal,” Brendon says. “People love you. You’re gonna sell like nine trillion records and tour the world and—“  
  
“You don’t have to cheer me up,” Adam says. “I know I’m lucky, I know—“  
  
“No, you don’t know,” Brendon cuts him off. “You’re the best, Adam. You are, there’s no question. My band? We were lucky. You deserved this. And when you’re singing in front of ten thousand people in arenas around the world, you’ll deserve that too.”  
  
Adam’s quiet for a moment, and Brendon knows, then, that Adam’s exhausted, that he’s running on fumes, that he’s been playing the part of the gracious runner-up all evening and he’s done. Brendon wishes Adam were here so he could hug him, so he could look him in the eye and say,  _This had nothing to do with luck._  
  
“You don’t think your band deserves its success?” Adam asks.  
  
Adam never misses anything. Brendon rubs his eyes, then cracks his knuckles.  
  
”I don’t know,” Brendon says.  
  
“You should know,” Adam murmurs, “because you do.”  
  
*  
  
“New York, New Yooooork…” Adam trills.  
  
“Okay, you got it, I’m jealous,” Brendon says. “You’re going to New York, you’re going to be on Good Morning America,  _I get it_.”  
  
Adam smiles. “I love New York. New York is the bomb.”  
  
“New York is dirty and smelly and overcrowded, and the weather sucks,” Brendon grumbles.   
  
Adam’s smile widens.   
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“I wish you could go with me,” Adam says. “You could come shopping with me again.”  
  
“Shopping in New York with Adam Lambert,” Brendon says. “My life-long dream. I would die of joy.”  
  
“You’re very grumpy,” Adam says. “I would like to point out that you did not lose  _American Idol_  two days ago by less than a million votes.”  
  
“No, but my bandmates suck,” Brendon says. “I can’t even get in touch with Ryan, and Jon answers like one out of every three texts I send if I’m lucky, and Spencer hates me. Well, he doesn’t hate me, but he’s really tired of listening to me whine about how our bandmates suck.”  
  
“I can’t imagine why,” Adam says.  
  
“Shut up  _again_ ,” Brendon says. “You invited me out for coffee, asshole.”  
  
Adam tilts his head to one side. “Okay, then. Tell me about your bandmates. Everything. I want to know everything.”  
  
“Uh,” Brendon says.  
  
“Tell me about Ryan,” Adam says. “I don’t know anything about Ryan.”  
  
Brendon tenses. It’s true – he never talks to Adam about Ryan. He spends a lot of time trying not to talk about Ryan, maybe because he’s not sure of what to say.  
  
“Ryan started the band,” Brendon says. “He used to be the singer, actually, and then he decided he wanted me to sing. He writes most of the lyrics to our songs too.”  
  
“Ryan sounds like kind of a control freak,” Adam says.  
  
“You have no idea,” Brendon says. “Ryan is so – he’s fucking frustrating, is what he is. He’s impossible to read, and he gets upset over the smallest things, and—“  
  
“So these issues you’ve been having lately,” Adam says, “are they with the band, or are they with Ryan?”  
  
Brendon curls his hand into a fist on the table top. The surface is warm from his coffee cup.   
  
“Things have never been easy with me and Ryan. We’ve always had different ideas about what the band should—“  
  
“But that’s not really it, is it?” Adam asks. “I mean, that might be part of it, but is that really what’s going on?”  
  
Sometimes Brendon loves that Adam gets it, and sometimes he hates it. Right now he hates it.  
  
“This isn’t just about Ryan,” Brendon says, staring at Adam head on. “This is about the band.”  
  
Adam lowers his eyes, his hand grasping his coffee cup a bit more tightly.  
  
“Okay,” Adam says. “Okay.”  
  
*  
  
While Adam is in New York, Brendon gets his  _Rolling Stone_  in the mail.   
  
Adam is on the cover.  
  
He’s wearing all black and a strategically-placed green snake. He looks like pure sex in carbon-based life form. _WILD IDOL_ , the cover proclaims, and above it, in smaller letters:  _The Liberation of Adam Lambert._  
  
 _Liberation?_  Brendon wonders, then opens the magazine to the cover story, reads the first few paragraphs and thinks,  _Ooooh_.  
  
He reads the whole article. It’s a good article, better than Panic’s was – but then again, Adam’s got a lot more interesting things to say.  
  
Brendon agonizes about it for hours, and then he calls Adam. He means for it to be a  _Hey, congratulations, you’re awesome_  sort of call, but then he gets his voice mail and he has no idea what to say.  
  
“So, uh,” Brendon mumbles. “I wanted to – I just – I want you to know that I had a great time with you the other day. I know you’re busy but I’m really not, so – call me.”  
  
 _Idiot_ , he thinks after he hangs up.  _Dumbass._  
  
He spends an awful lot of time staring at the photo of Adam putting on his own eyeliner, thinking about how smooth Adam’s skin looks, how pale in contrast with the smoky trails around his eyes.   
  
He thinks,  _Ryan never looked like that in eyeliner. I never looked like that in eyeliner._  
  
He goes online and types “Adam Lambert” into Google, gets a bunch of articles about  _American Idol_. But when he clicks on “Images,” his breath catches. There are photos of Adam making out with a guy, tongues twisting – a kiss so intimate Brendon feels bad for witnessing it. He clicks back to the Google home page and sits there, staring at his computer, for a long time. He feels weird, and confused, and kind of turned on.  
  
Brendon doesn’t have much experience kissing dudes, but he does have some. He had a half-hearted fling with bisexuality a few years ago when they first started touring— it mostly consisted of making out with random guys at parties while wasted, and it was weird and sort of slutty, and he can’t for the life of him remember the names of any of the guys he kissed. But sometimes, Brendon wonders—  
  
It’s not that Brendon didn’t  _know_  – Adam’s not a super subtle guy, not cagey or secretive. But Brendon hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t had many thoughts about Adam other than  _wow_  and  _he can sing_  and  _he’s nice_  and  _I want us to hang out_.   
  
Brendon realizes he tends to think of Adam in the language of music: as a bright melody underlied with thumping bass, pretty but insistent and impossible to ignore. He never thought about him in terms of labels or categories or boxes. He thought of him as that guy who sang Sam Cooke like he meant it, like Brendon’s always wanted to sing it but never felt he knew how.  
  
He thinks maybe Adam is the kind of guy who confuses people. And he doesn’t know what he thinks about that.  
  
  
*  
  
A week later Brendon’s with Shane and Spencer in his living room messing around on a keyboard while they argue about whether there are ever situations when giraffes eat meat.  
  
His phone vibrates in his pocket, giving him a jolt. He doesn’t recognize the number, but he flips it open anyway, needing the distraction.  
  
“Hey,” Adam says. “I lost my cell phone. Or – okay, I didn’t lose it, I left it somewhere, but – anyway, how are you?”  
  
Adam sounds flustered, like he’s been running around all day. Brendon sympathizes, recalling days on tour when they got sheparded around from place to place with no breaks in between, from interview to photoshoot to practice to show. Brendon kind of liked that – feeling like he was needed somewhere, like he was necessary.  
  
“I’m all right,” Brendon says. “How are you? Ready for tour?”  
  
Adam snorts. “Like I’ll ever be ready for tour,” he says. “But literally, yes. We’re rehearsing and it’s going well, actually.”  
  
“That’s awesome,” Brendon says.  
  
“How’s the writing going?” Adam asks.  
  
“They are vegetarians, Spencer,” Shane says. “The meaning of vegetarian is that they don’t eat meat.”  
  
“I disagree,” Spencer says. “Maybe they’re shitty vegetarians.”  
  
Brendon ducks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him, and sits down on the closed toilet seat. “Jesus. Sorry. It’s…uh. About the same.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Adam says, and he really does sound sorry. “Hey, you know what sometimes helps with writing music? Or so I imagine, if I ever had time to do it myself?”  
  
Brendon laughs. “Enlighten me.”  
  
“Seeing people play music,” Adam says. “Come to a concert with me.”  
  
Brendon’s stomach does a little flip. “What concert?”  
  
“It’s Muse – you know Muse?” Adam says. “British band?”  
  
“Oh – yeah, I fucking know Muse!” Brendon says. “I love them. They’re amazing. They’re like – Queen meets Radiohead, or something.”  
  
Adam sounds like he’s smiling when he says, “So is that a yes?”  
  
“Tell me where to be and I’ll be there,” Brendon says.  
  
*  
  
“I can’t believe you’re going to see Muse and I’m not invited,” Jon mourns, his voice crackly with static over the phone line.  
  
“You are so invited!” Brendon says. “It’s not my fault you’re in Chicago.”  
  
Jon sighs. “Everything happens in L.A. Everything that matters.”  
  
“Can you breathe over there?” Brendon says. “Because it sounds a lot like you’re drowning in a sea of your own emo.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Jon says. “I miss you guys.”  
  
“I hear they have these things called planes,” Brendon says. “You should check that out.”  
  
“Wow, songwriting makes you bitchy,” Jon says.  
  
“You have no idea,” Brendon says.  
  
*  
  
Brendon wants to hang out in Adam Lambert’s closet. It seems like it would be a pretty magical place, given the outfits Adam manages to create. “Outfit” doesn’t even seem like the right term. They are something between “outfit” and “costume,” and the current ensemble involves a leather jacket studded with silver and feathers dangling from the elbows, skin-tight black pants, boots that make him even taller (the bastard), and an assortment of jewelry, including a tiny pair of silver handcuffs dangling from his belt. Brendon’s fairly certain those handcuffs would only work on very small mammals, but they’re badass nonetheless.  
  
“Brendon, meet Kris,” Adam says, and shoves a small, grinning, brown-haired guy in a white t-shirt and jeans in Brendon’s direction.  
  
“What’s up, man,” Kris says, and shakes Brendon’s hand. Kris is as unassuming as Adam is intimidating. He won the most popular music contest in the world, and he looks like some dude you might run into at Applebee’s or working at Best Buy.  
  
Brendon smiles back and says, “I’m excited for this concert.”  
  
“Adam tells me they’re amazing,” Kris says. “I like what I’ve heard. Plus Adam’s usually right.”  
  
“I’m always right, is what you mean,” Adam says, placing one hand easily on Kris’ shoulder. “Did you misplace your wife somewhere?”  
  
“She’s in the bathroom, she’ll be back,” Kris says, waving him off. “So Brendon – you’re in a band, right?”  
  
“Yeah,” Brendon says. “I’m the singer for Panic at the Disco.”  
  
“Oh, right!” Kris says. “I remember that song – the one with the – ‘ _haven’t you people ever heard of_ —‘”  
  
“Kris is a fanboy!” Adam exclaims. “That’s so cute.”  
  
“I saw the video on MTV,” Kris says, ignoring Adam. “It was awesome.”  
  
“Shane Drake directed it,” Adam says. “You remember Shane.”  
  
Kris wrinkles his nose. “Yeah. That dude was kind of…weird.”  
  
Brendon bursts out laughing, and Adam snorts. Kris looks bewildered. “What—”  
  
“Hey, go find your wife,” Adam says, and gives Kris a little shove. Kris gives him a reproachful look over his shoulder as he heads off towards the restrooms.  
  
“He seems nice,” Brendon says.  
  
“Kris is the best,” Adam says. “He’s seriously the sweetest guy I’ve ever met. And he’s hilarious. We can talk about anything. It’s awesome.”  
  
“I didn’t want to, like, freak you out,” Brendon says, grinning, “but I know all kinds of shit about you too.”  
  
Adam raises an eyebrow. “Oh really.”  
  
“Yeah, like – like, you used to be in  _theater_ ,” Brendon says. “And you’re from San Diego.”  
  
“Top secret stuff,” Adam says.  
  
“Basically,” Brendon nods.  
  
“You don’t happen to subscribe to a magazine called  _Rolling Stone_ ,” Adam says, “do you?”  
  
All of a sudden Brendon gets very quiet.  
  
“By the somewhat stricken look on your face, I’ll take that as a yes,” Adam says.   
  
“Yeah,” Brendon murmurs. “I do subscribe.”  
  
“And I’m guessing you read the article,” Adam says. “Were you surprised?”  
  
“I watched the show, but I didn’t read any press about it. I didn’t know people had been…bothering you so much about it.”  
  
Adam’s jaw gets tight. “Yeah. I was everybody’s maybe-gay poster boy for awhile there. It got a little exhausting.”  
  
“Did it feel good?” Brendon says, too quickly, then bites his lip. “To talk about it.”  
  
“I get kind of tired of talking about it,” Adam says. “But yeah, it felt good to be truthful. To stop feeling like I had to talk around it. I never really hid it. I just – I didn’t want it to define me.”  
  
“Hey, she does exist!” a voice comes from behind Brendon, and he turns to see Kris with a petite, beautiful blonde Brendon guesses is his wife. What follows are introductions and shuffling around to find the best spot on the floor, and that’s sort of the end of that conversation. When Brendon glances over at Adam he’s chatting with Katy, laughing and pretending to fluff her hair, and by the time Brendon’s figured out something to say, the opening band’s kicked into gear.  
  
*  
  
The band is taking a quick break, and Katy and Kris have disappeared (“To go make out,” Adam explains), so Adam and Brendon are finally alone again.   
  
“Fuck, they’re good,” Adam says.   
  
He’s sweaty and practically shimmering, he’s so excited.  
  
“They’re so, like,  _orchestral_ ,” Brendon says, in awe.   
  
“Yeah, their arrangements are sick,” Adam says. “They’re scary complicated.”  
  
“I’d love to do a Muse cover,” Brendon says.  
  
“I’m doing one on tour,” Adam says.  
  
“Seriously?” Brendon says. “That’s badass.”  
  
“Fo’ sho fo sho,” Adam says, and cracks himself up laughing.  
  
“Oh my God,” a girl shrieks, and launches herself at Adam, grasping onto the leather of his jacket. “Adam, I love you, I love you—”  
  
“Whoa there, sweetheart,” Adam says. He holds her gently by the arms, keeping her slightly at a distance. “Nice to meet you too.”  
  
The band starts playing “Supermassive Black Hole,” and Brendon can see Adam having a conversation with the frantic fangirl, though he can’t hear what he’s saying. She’s crying, and she can’t be more than fifteen, and Adam is handling it like a pro – completely calm, unafraid, gracious.  
  
Brendon feels a pang of something in his stomach, a sharp sadness. He thinks:  _I miss that_. He doesn’t mean girls screaming and fainting – though that’s nice too, a real ego boost; he means that feeling he got when it seemed like their music mattered to people. Like it meant something.  
  
Like there was a point.  
  
Adam grabs his arm and pulls, leaning in and hissing in his ear, “We have got to go, or this is going to get really uncomfortable really quickly.”  
  
They take off for the upper levels, and Brendon follows him without objection. Adam explains the situation to the security guy, and he simply nods and takes them to a few empty seats. They’re not nearly as close, but it’s less crowded and claustrophobic. Adam looks relieved.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just – that girl was going to tell her friends, and then they’d come too, and we wouldn’t even get to watch the damn show—”  
  
“Hey, it’s cool,” Brendon says. “Really.”  
  
Adam exhales heavily, slumping in the chair. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Does it get any less crazy?”  
  
“Yeah,” Brendon mutters. “But you don’t want it to.”  
  
*  
  
After the concert, Adam drives Brendon back to Brendon’s place. Brendon’s giddy and adrenaline-drunk, vibrating in his seat. He doesn’t even realize he’s jiggling his leg until Adam places a firm hand on his knee and presses down. He stills, flushing, and Adam smiles at him, that friendly-tiger smile.  
  
“Feeling inspired?” he says.  
  
“Dude, yes,” Brendon breathes. “So amazing, oh my God.”  
  
Adam pulls over at the curb near Brendon’s townhouse, flicks off the ignition and settles back into the seat. He looks relaxed and happy, everything that Brendon feels.  
  
“Thank you for this,” Brendon says.  
  
Adam nods, his eyes sparking with quiet interior enthusiasm.  
  
“Anything I can do to help,” he says.  
  
Brendon holds his gaze and feels his stomach jump.  
  
*  
  
That night Brendon lies in bed with his earphones in but no music playing, watching the shadows slink across the walls. He’s exhausted but his mind is humming with constant mental noise, thoughts climbing on top of worries skidding over questions.  
  
He thinks about Adam and his cool eyes that warm until they melt, and his hand on Brendon’s knee, and his laugh that always sounds like a surprise.   
  
He thinks that tonight was the first time in weeks that he truly got lost in music, labyrinth lost, the kind of lost that makes you never want to be found.   
  
He thinks about how long it’s been since he felt like that with his band.  
  
He thinks about how much he’s going to miss Adam when he goes on tour, how this must be what it feels like to be left behind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*  
  
The next day Brendon wakes up late in the afternoon and stumbles out into the living room to find Shane and Spencer there, watching  _Boy Meets World_. He pours himself a cup of coffee and tries to shake the sleep from his bones.  
  
“I don’t care what you say, Shane,” Spencer says. “Topanga was hot.”  
  
“This show is not that funny,” Shane observes.  
  
“What are you talking about, it’s hilarious,” Spencer says.  
  
“Hey, guys?” Brendon inserts.  
  
“All I’m saying is this might have been funny when I was, like, ten,” Shane says, “But now—”  
  
“Now it’s brilliant on a tautology level,” Spencer says.  
  
“I don’t think that means what you think it means,” Shane mutters.  
  
“Guys?” Brendon’s starting to sound plaintive.  
  
“I do so,” Spencer insists.  
  
“Define it, then,” Shane says. “Use it in a sentence.”  
  
“Jesus Christ!” Brendon bursts out. “We’ve basically been sitting on our asses for six months. We were supposed to lay down tracks weeks ago, but all we have are a bunch of half-finished crap we wrote on tour and some demos Spencer and I have managed to get together so we can show something to Pete. Who cares if  _Boy Meets World_  is funny? Don’t you think we have slightly bigger issues to deal with?”  
  
When Brendon pauses to take a breath, he notices they’re staring at him. Shane rubs his temples. Spencer taps an idle beat against his knee.   
  
“Somebody say something,” Brendon demands.  
  
“Brendon,” Spencer says. “We’re all frustrated. We know it’s not going how we want it to—”  
  
“It’s not going at all! We’re in some kind of creative limbo and it fucking sucks.”  
  
“We just have to figure it out together,” Spencer says. “If we can—”  
  
“Did you notice the part where Ryan and Jon aren’t here?” Brendon asks. “They don’t seem very committed to figuring this out, Spence.”  
  
Spencer looks down at his hands.  
  
“All I want to do is make music,” Brendon shouts. “Why does that have to be so complicated?”  
  
There’s a sudden blanket of silence. Brendon tries to meet Spencer’s eyes, but Spencer looks away.   
  
Brendon remembers how he used to wake up every morning when they were in the studio, a mixed up jangle of notes and nerves, eager to get down to the work at hand. He never feels like that anymore. The last time they wrote music together as a band, song writing involved bracing himself for the apathy and sarcasm and long wasted composing sessions where everybody joked around to avoid the reality that nothing was getting done. Ryan hated everything Brendon wrote, and Jon seemed bored, and Spencer just looked angry, that same look he gets whenever there’s something wrong but he doesn’t know how to fix it.   
  
Panic at the Disco has become a band that rubs sticks together and gets no spark.  
  
Brendon’s brain hurts and his heart hurts and he feels like he wants to cry.  
  
 _Things have changed for me_ , he thinks.  
  
“I just—“ Brendon starts, then stops. “You know what? Forget it.”  
  
The air outside is cooler than he expected, and he shivers without a jacket. He climbs into his car and sits there for a number of minutes, head pressed against the steering wheel, inhaling plastic and dust.   
  
He takes out his phone and texts,  _where r u rite now?_  
  
The reply comes a few seconds later:  _at a friends. whats up?_  
  
 _can we hang out?_  Brendon texts.  _the shit hit the fan._  
  
The pause is a bit longer this time, just long enough for Brendon to start freaking out.  
  
 _sure. come to my place. give me a few minutes to get back._  
  
Adam’s not even home when Brendon arrives - he texts him and gets a reply that says,  _on the freeway b there soon._  
  
Brendon turns on his car radio and listens to Bob Marley on repeat:  _every little ting, every little ting will be all right._  
  
Adam pulls up a few minutes later, parks and gets out. He’s dressed up, wearing shimmery blue pants and a leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders, and Brendon realizes he was probably headed out somewhere. Now he feels like a total shit.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Brendon blurts out. “I didn’t mean to—“  
  
“Hey, if it’s serious, it’s serious,” Adam says. He reaches out and lifts Brendon’s chin with one hand. His eyes are curious and sad. “C’mon inside.”  
  
“I fucked up your plans,” Brendon babbles. “I suck so much right now it can’t even be quantified.”  
  
“Oh, shut up about that, seriously,” Adam says, pushing open the door to his apartment. “You’re welcome to have a pity party, but don’t make this about me. So I was going to a club tonight, big fucking deal. It’s not like I’ve never gone out before, or that I’ll never do it again.”  
  
“Point,” Brendon says.  
  
Adam’s apartment is a mess: clothing thrown everywhere, dirty dishes stacked in the sink, beauty products of various types and flavors cluttering most of the flat surfaces. Brendon picks up a bottle of silver nail polish and studies it.  
  
“You’d look good with silver make-up,” Adam says, sifting through his mail. “You’ve got the skin tone for it.”  
  
Brendon snorts and puts down the bottle. “The make-up thing never worked real well for me. That was more Ryan’s thing.”  
  
Adam leans against the kitchen island and gives Brendon the once-over. “Not all of us can be naturally gorgeous, honey.”  
  
Brendon’s eyes catch on Adam’s heavily lined ones, and he finds himself wondering what Adam would look like without the make-up. Would he be softer, somehow? When Ryan wore make-up it made him look more girly, played up the curves of his face rather than the angles. Brendon was always sort of fascinated by it. He knew it was a costume for Ryan, all part of the elaborate impersonation of the person he wanted to be.   
  
With Adam, though, Brendon’s pretty sure it means something different.  
  
Adam walks over to the couch and settles onto it.  
  
“So talk to me, naturally gorgeous,” he says. He pats a place next to him, a small square free of clothes.   
  
The apartment smells musty, like it hasn’t been aired out in awhile. Brendon wonders how much time Adam’s spent here over the last few months. It feels more like an oversized storage closet than anybody’s home.  
  
Brendon wedges himself on the couch, arm slipping on a vinyl jacket flung over the back, shiny and slick.  
  
“I think my band is going to break up,” he says, and he realizes the second he says it how real it feels. This could actually happen. This could be the end.  
  
“You guys had a fight,” Adam says.  
  
“I might have sort of started one,” Brendon says.  
  
“About the album?”  
  
“About how we don’t seem to want to make music together anymore,” Brendon says. “It’s like – I remember a time when all I wanted to do was hang out and make Ryan’s lyrics into songs, put music to them and play together. But now I think maybe—“  
  
He stops.  
  
“Maybe you have something of your own to say?” Adam asks.  
  
Brendon feels warmer, as if someone’s holding a lit match close to his palm. He wants to move forward and touch that heat, even if it burns.  
  
“Yeah,” Brendon says.  
  
“I’ve spent a lot of time singing other people’s words,” Adam says. “Even when they’re words you love, sometimes it’s not enough.”  
  
Brendon watches as Adam lowers his eyes and begins to pick the polish off his thumb nail.  
  
“How do you know if you have anything important to say?” Brendon asks.  
  
Adam looks up. His eyes are steady and clear, never leaving Brendon’s.  
  
“You have something important to say,” Adam says. “Trust me, Brendon. You do.”  
  
*  
  
They spend the rest of the evening watching movies curled up on Adam’s bed. Adam sweeps the clothes off his bed with a flourish. Brendon likes knowing Adam’s sort of a slob, that there’s some part of his life he doesn’t have totally under control.   
  
“Ryan likes this movie,” Brendon says when Adam slips in  _Velvet Goldmine._  
  
“I love it,” Adam says. “I don’t know. It’s just – it’s all about how music can mess you up, and how it can bring you closer to God. I love that.”  
  
Brendon only ever half-watched it on the bus, mind sleepy and unfocused, but now he tries to pay attention. He watches Adam watch the movie, sees the way he leans forward, hands curling in the fabric of his pants, lips parting as he mouths certain lines.   
  
 _I needn't mention how essential dreaming is to the character of the rock star_ , Mandy Slade says onscreen.  
  
Brendon thinks,  _When did I stop dreaming?_  
  
At some point he falls asleep, because he wakes up and the TV and lights are off. He wonders if he should get up, tell Adam he’s got to go, but it’s so late and the bed is so comfortable, and it’s a long way back to a too-quiet house haunted by his own thoughts. He turns over and falls asleep almost immediately, hearing nothing but the hum of Adam’s fridge and distant sirens.  
  
*  
  
Brendon wakes slowly, melting into the warmth that surrounds him. Adam is solid against his back, arm soft and pliant around Brendon’s waist, his hand flat on Brendon’s stomach.  
  
He is also completely and totally asleep.  
  
Brendon could shrug Adam off, even leave, but he’s sort of enjoying the contact. Well, that’s a lie. He’s really enjoying the contact. And his dick seems to be enjoying it too, given how it’s decided to make its presence known.   
  
 _Shit._  
  
“Mmm,” Adam hums, breath hot on Brendon’s neck, and okay, this is not good.   
  
Brendon shifts slightly, just enough to feel that hey, maybe Adam’s sort of enjoying this too. Even if he’s mostly unconscious.  
  
Adam spreads his fingers on Brendon’s stomach, and Brendon hitches in a breath. Part of him is still thinking, _What the fuck are we doing?_  while another part of him is thinking,  _Wow, his hands are big and It would be so nice if his hand was just a little bit lower._  
  
As if Adam has some kind of psychic-sexual powers, he slides his hand down to rest over the zipper of Brendon’s jeans. Brendon gasps, and Adam makes more sleepy sounds. He cups Brendon through his pants, and Brendon closes his eyes and thinks,  _God, yes._  
  
“Oh,  _shit_.”  
  
Adam is suddenly awake. Brendon can feel Adam scrambling to untangle them. Without thinking, Brendon turns over onto his back, following Adam’s hand, and catches Adam’s wrist between his fingers, holding him in place.  
  
Adam’s eyes are panicked and still heavy with sleep, eyeliner smeared at the corners. He looks smoky and tired and undone, and Brendon doesn’t know what’s going on or what he’s doing but he – he just wants—  
  
“Don’t stop,” he whispers.  
  
Adam’s eyes widen.  
  
“Brendon,” Adam says, “I didn’t mean to—“  
  
“Please,” Brendon says, and his voice is raspy and thin.  
  
Adam looks down at where his hand is still pressed against Brendon’s stomach. He seems frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do, but then he flickers his fingers over the cool skin of Brendon’s stomach. Brendon moves his hips, a little shimmy on the bed.  
  
“Do you want—“ Adam starts to say, and that’s when Brendon grasps at the back of Adam’s neck and pulls him down and kisses him.  
  
Adam seems tentative at first, like he doesn’t want to scare Brendon or something, but when Brendon bites down on Adam’s lower lip Adam groans and opens his mouth against Brendon’s, tangling his hand in Brendon’s hair. Adam smells like his sweet cologne and the slightly stale scent of morning. He kisses like he sings: smoothly and without hesitation, confident and  _dirty_. Brendon arches his back and Adam’s hand drifts lower, gently resting on Brendon’s groin. When Adam presses down with the heel of his hand, Brendon moans and twists against the sheets. Adam hums into Brendon’s mouth and presses harder, massaging him through his jeans. Brendon’s breathing stutters as Adam whispers, “You really want this, don’t you?”  
  
It’s not the question so much as the way he asks it – voice deep and hoarse and strained – like he wants to say something else but can’t quite do it, can’t even let Brendon know what he wants.   
  
“God,” Brendon says, and Adam slides down the zipper and pushes his hand into Brendon’s boxers. His hand is soft and huge around Brendon’s dick, stroking him from root to tip, and he’s barely on stroke number two when Brendon’s coming all over his fingers.  
  
For a few minutes the only sound in the room is their shared heavy breathing. Brendon blinks to clear the fog in his head, and is just about to reach for Adam when he feels Adam slip his hand out of Brendon’s pants and roll off the bed.  
  
“Hey, where are you—“ Brendon starts to say, but Adam cuts him off.  
  
“You should probably go,” he says. “I have a studio session today anyway.”  
  
Brendon feels like such an idiot. He struggles with his pants, hands shaking on the zipper, and is grateful when Adam disappears into the bathroom and doesn’t come out again until Brendon’s dressed.  
  
“I didn’t mean to—“  
  
“Look,” Adam says. “I shouldn’t have – I’m sorry. I’m sorry about this. Can we just – I’m going to Portland tomorrow. I’ll call you, okay?”  
  
What’s Brendon going to say? He knows when he’s being blown off.  
  
“Right,” Brendon says, and makes his way toward the door. When he turns back to say something else, he notices that Adam’s got one hand clenched into a fist, his lips curved into a tight frown.  
  
“Good luck,” Brendon says, and Adam nods, just once.  
  
*  
  
For the first time since Shane moved out, Brendon’s glad to come home to an empty house. He doesn’t feel like answering questions about his whereabouts last night, or about anything else, for that matter. He wanders into his bedroom and shuts the door and climbs under the covers and lies there for two hours, letting his thoughts flit around like busy bees, unsystematic and random and wild.  
  
Brendon is so tired. He’s so tired of being the last to catch on, of being the dumb, cheerful dude who pretends things are cool when they aren’t. He’s tired of not getting it, whatever “it” is.  
  
He tosses off the covers and goes into the living room. He sits down on the carpet, pulls his acoustic guitar into his lap, and begins to pick out melodies. They’re bits and pieces, nothing coherent yet, but he likes a lot of them, and he can see them going somewhere, maybe, if he pushes until they do.  
  
Three hours later he’s still there, and he hasn’t gotten up to eat or drink. He’s feeling a bit dizzy but he’s not ready to stop. His phone rings and he thinks about not answering it, but then he thinks, It might be Adam, and lunges for it as it skitters over the coffee table.  
  
“Hey, Bren,” Spencer says on the other end. He sounds sad, and tired, though maybe not tired in the same way Brendon is.  
  
“Hey,” Brendon says stiffly.  
  
“So I’m over at Shane’s,” Spencer says. “I can stay here if you want—“  
  
“I don’t want you to do that,” Brendon says. “You’re welcome to stay here.”  
  
He can hear Spencer exhale on the other end.  
  
“We should hang out, then,” Spencer says. “Work on those demos. We were really close to having something, I think.”  
  
“What about Ryan and Jon?” Brendon asks.  
  
There’s a heavy pause on the other end.  
  
“I don’t know,” Spencer says. “Let’s just take it one step at a time, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Brendon says. “Want to come back now? I’ve been messing around with some stuff for awhile. I could use your feedback.”  
  
“Sure, sure,” Spencer says.   
  
Brendon thinks,  _You really want this, don’t you?_  and then  _Yes, yes, yes._  
  
*  
  
Adam doesn’t call.  
  
Brendon’s not surprised. Hurt, maybe. A tiny bit pissed. But mostly it’s what he expected, because even if he’s not sure exactly what went wrong at Adam’s place three days ago, he knows something went wrong.   
  
He and Spencer work on their songs a lot, and it helps keep Brendon distracted and sane. They talk about chord progressions and syncopation and line meter, and it feels good to collaborate with Spencer, who’s laid back and encouraging and never makes fun of Brendon’s attempts at lyrics. They crack each other up with dumb jokes, eat cereal at two in the morning, and watch infomercials until they’re both loopy.   
  
Brendon remembers what this was like: being friends with Spencer, being friends with all of them back when that was what this band was about: not the fangirls or the press or the gossip, just being musicians, people who make music, people who love making music together.  
  
They never talk about the band, and their silence means more than any conversation possibly could.  
  
One night Spencer leaves to go to dinner with his sisters, who are visiting for the weekend, and Brendon curls up on the couch with his Sidekick and texts Adam before he can talk himself out of it:  _can i call u?_  
  
The response isn’t immediate – in fact, Adam doesn’t get back to him until nearly an hour later with a curt:  _ok_.  
  
Brendon stalls, makes himself Cup ‘O’ Noodles, flips channels for a few minutes, then goes into his bedroom, shuts the door and dials.  
  
“This is Adam Lambert’s phone,” a voice comes on the line, and Brendon thinks for a second that he’s gone straight to voice mail, but then the voice continues, “Adam is too important to answer your call himself, so I will be filling in— _ow_ , Jesus!”  
  
“Sorry, that failure of a human being was Kris Allen,” Adam’s voice comes on the line. “Who is this?”  
  
Brendon considers hanging up, but Adam will know he called, and what is he so afraid of, seriously? Things can’t get any worse. Adam’s already miles away and apparently not interested in him sexually.  
  
“Brendon,” he says. “This is Brendon.”  
  
There’s a intake of breath, and then Adam covers the mouthpiece and there’s some muffled talking and laughter. When Adam gets back on, his voice is softer, less sharp.  
  
“Hey,” he says. “How are you?”  
  
“Not that great,” Brendon says honestly. “Not terrible, but not great.”  
  
Adam sighs. “I – I’m sorry, Brendon. About the thing at my apartment, that was—“  
  
“Do you mean when you jerked me off?” Brendon asks. “It’d be nice if you could at least say it.”  
  
Wow, Brendon is maybe a little angrier about that than he thought.  
  
“I’m not ashamed to say it,” Adam says. “I just – it caught me off guard. I didn’t think you were…I thought you were straight.”  
  
Suddenly Brendon has no idea what to say. He thought he was straight, too – or maybe a little bi-curious, but he’s certainly never let some guy jerk him off before. Then again, Adam isn’t some guy.   
  
Brendon has a feeling Adam is the exception to a lot of people’s rules.   
  
Brendon could be persuaded to be a bit less heterosexual for Adam. Brendon has already been persuaded, and Adam’s not even trying.  
  
Brendon sort of wants Adam to try.  
  
“I’ve messed around with straight guys before,” Adam says. “Confused guys, whatever. Guys who didn’t know what they wanted. I’ve spent a lot of time with straight guys who flirt with me and fuck me up and…I’m kind of over it. I’m twenty-seven years old, Brendon. I’m ready to be with someone who knows what they want.”  
  
“But how do you know I’m straight?” Brendon says.   
  
Adam pauses. “I guess I didn’t know. I assumed—”  
  
“I know I wanted you to give me a chance to reciprocate,” Brendon blurts out. “I know that much for sure.”  
  
He can hear Adam’s breath catch. “You—“  
  
“I really wanted to suck your cock,” Brendon says. “I know – I still want that.”  
  
“Jesus,” Adam breathes, and it’s like the temperature in the room has risen about forty degrees all of a sudden. Brendon’s already sweating. He closes his eyes and remembers Adam’s hand, so big and smooth flattened against his stomach. He thinks about Adam’s voice and the way it dipped when Brendon arched underneath his hands. He wants to make Adam’s voice break the way it never does when he sings.  
  
“It’s too bad you’re going on tour,” Brendon says. “We sort of missed our window.”  
  
“Not necessarily,” Adam says, and his voice is strained. “I’ll be back in L.A. in two weeks.”  
  
Brendon’s pulse jumps. He was feeling so bold before, so reckless, but that was when he thought this was just a game. If Adam comes back, it’s real. It’s no longer theoretical. It’s Adam’s mouth on his, it’s Adam’s hands holding him down, it’s Brendon sucking Adam’s cock.  
  
“Well,” Brendon murmurs, “get me some tickets and I’ll be there.”  
  
“I can do that,” Adam says. “I can definitely do that.”  
  
“You want to tell me what I’ve got to look forward to?” Brendon asks. “I could use something to look forward to right now.”  
  
“Are you asking me to talk sexy to you?” Adam asks, and there’s a playful lilt that wasn’t there before. “You Mormon boys always are the dirtiest.”  
  
“How did you—“  
  
“I googled you, rock star,” Adam says, sounding smug. “Didn’t think it was quite fair that you knew so much about me when I didn’t know nearly as much about you.”  
  
“You know a lot about me,” Brendon says. “I’ve been talking your ear off for weeks.”  
  
“I know you liked it when I jerked you off,” Adam says. “But I know you’d probably like it even more if I licked you all over until you begged for it first.”  
  
Brendon should have known Adam would best him at this. He’s shameless.  
  
“I think I would like that, yeah,” Brendon says, and Adam chuckles.  
  
“I’d tease the hell out of you. You make some slutty noises, Brendon. I’d tease you for hours just to hear you make those noises over and over. Then I’d turn you over and lick you open and fuck you.”  
  
Brendon closes his eyes, pops the button on his pants and slides his hand down into his jeans. He’s so hard it makes him shiver when he runs a finger over the length of his cock.  
  
“Are you touching yourself?” Adam asks. He sounds smug.   
  
“Maybe,” Brendon says, and exhales when he finally curls his hand around his dick, thrusts a little into the circle of his fingers.  
  
“I did this thing once,” Adam says conversationally, “where I was experimenting with tantra? I kept this guy from coming for five hours. He was so strung out by the end of it he couldn’t see straight. Like, literally. I spent half an hour on his nipples, licking them and biting them and blowing on them, hot and cold, back and forth, and he was so hard by the time I finally touched his cock he was dizzy. He almost fainted.”  
  
Brendon makes a soft  _mmm_  sound, stroking himself slowly. He knows if he goes any faster this will be over very soon, and he wants to listen to Adam for a bit longer. A  _lot_  longer, if he’s being honest.  
  
“You’d do that to me?” Brendon asks when Adam goes quiet on the other end.  
  
“Oh, honey,” Adam says. “That and so much more.”  
  
“I want to suck you off,” Brendon says, “and I want you to tell me the way you like it, because I’ve never done it before. I want it to be good for you.”  
  
Adam inhales.  _Bingo_ , Brendon thinks. How did he know that Adam would get off on being in charge?  
  
“I can do that,” Adam says.  
  
“Are you touching yourself?” Brendon asks.  
  
“I am now.”  
  
“I want you to tell me how you’re touching yourself,” Brendon says. “I want you to tell me so I know how to touch you.”  
  
He can hear the rustling of fabric and static as Adam shifts around.  
  
“I don’t know,” Adam says. “I – I like it pretty hard. Firm, strong strokes. I like when—when someone touches the head a lot, uses their thumb—”  
  
“Circles it?” Brendon says. He mirrors Adam’s words with his fingers, feeling himself shake as he draws his thumb over the slit. “Oh,  _fuck_.”  
  
“Yeah,” Adam says. “Like that.”  
  
“God,” Brendon pants. “I want – I wish you were here right now, I wish you could touch me like you touched me before—“  
  
“I will,” Adam says, and he sounds short of breath, too. “I’ll touch you, I’ll suck you, I—“  
  
“I want you to fuck me,” Brendon babbles, and Adam groans, louder than before, incoherent, and Brendon comes breathing his name.  
  
“Holy shit,” Adam whispers a moment later when they’ve both slowed their breathing to a steady rhythm.  
  
“Yeah,” Brendon says.  
  
“I’ll get you those tickets right away,” Adam says, and Brendon laughs and laughs.  
  
*  
  
Brendon wakes up feeling sticky and happy. He thinks:  _Two weeks._  
  
There’s a text waiting on his phone. It says,  _had to wake up early as fuck this morning and do an interview. felt better when i thought about you_.  
  
He sings in the shower, a mixed up medley of Bob Marley and the Beatles,  _don’t worry about a ting_  into  _all you need is love._  
  
Brendon knows things are far from okay. His career is in shambles, his band is on the verge of breaking up, and some of his oldest friendships are falling apart. But this thing with Adam is something. Something good. He is ready for something good.  
  
Spencer shows up around noon, looking a little guilty. He pushes past Brendon into his kitchen and sits down on a stool and slumps over.  
  
“Are you okay?” Brendon asks.  
  
“Not really,” Spencer says. “Brendon, I – I met with Ryan this morning.”  
  
That sounds ominous and oddly formal. Spencer and Ryan didn’t “hang out,” they “met.” It sounds like they were negotiating a treaty. It sounds scary.  
  
He wants the band-aid ripped off.  
  
“And?” Brendon asks.   
  
“Ryan thinks we should go our separate ways,” Spencer says. “Me and you. Him and Jon. He thinks we’re not musically compatible anymore, that this is why we haven’t been able to make it work.”  
  
“What do you think?” Brendon asks.  
  
“I think he might be right,” Spencer says.  
  
Brendon knows, then, that the decision has already been made, that it was made the second Ryan and Spencer sat down at that table together to talk. He knows it doesn’t matter what he does or says now because it’s too late. And the worst part is he doesn’t know what he could have done differently.  
  
“I think he might be right too,” Brendon says softly.  
  
 _It’s just – it’s all about how music can mess you up, and how it can bring you closer to God_ , Adam had said the night they watched  _Velvet Goldmine_.   
  
Brendon wants to feel like that again – invincible the way music makes him feel, armed with notes, unafraid.  
  
*  
  
Adam calls him right after their first show in Portland, all keyed up and hyper.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Brendon,” he says. “You would not believe how many people there were out there.”  
  
“I told you a lot of people watch that stupid show,” Brendon teases. He can feel Adam’s excitement through the phone, palpable and electric.  
  
“Yeah, but they paid money to be there,” Adam says. “I can’t – I can’t even fucking believe it, the way they screamed, I just—“  
  
“It never gets old,” Brendon says softly.  
  
“What?” Adam asks. There’s noise in the background, conversation and music.  
  
“It never gets old,” Brendon repeats. “Making people feel like that.”  
  
“Exactly,” Adam says. “I love it so much, and I’d almost forgotten that. Before I went on Idol, I’d almost given up on feeling like that again.”  
  
Brendon scratches his coffee table with his guitar pick. He thinks Adam is trying to tell him something.  
  
“I gotta go,” Adam says. “First show after-party thing. I’ll call you soon, okay?”  
  
“Sure,” Brendon says. “Have a good time. Congratulations, seriously.”  
  
“I can’t wait to see you,” Adam says. “I’m gonna dream about you.”  
  
The phone goes dead.  
  
Brendon wanders out onto his balcony and sprawls on a chair, guitar in his lap. He picks out the chords of “Mad World” from memory, sings  _worn out places worn out faces_  under his breath.   
  
The sky is ashy with reflected light. He pulls his knees up to his chest and closes his eyes.  
  
*  
  
The next day he and Spencer get to work, messing around with some of the stuff they’ve been writing and composing new material too. They go so late that they’re actually up at 3 am when Pete calls in typical insomniac fashion to ask them if they “still wanted to do that tour thing with Blink.”   
  
The Blink thing and the No Doubt gigs were always in August, but August always seemed so far away – now it’s only a month away, and they’ve got half a band. Of course they want to do the thing with Blink, even if it means they’ve got to figure out a bassist and a lead guitarist in, oh, the next week. They’ll play old stuff, fuck it – yeah, it’ll suck to do it without Ryan and Jon, but Ryan and Jon don’t want to play Panic’s stuff anymore. This is how it is.  
  
“You guys are handling this really well,” Pete says. “Ryan – not so much.”  
  
“Ryan’s got to figure out his own shit,” Spencer says.  
  
Brendon knows he means the music, and the getting high, and maybe his whole goddamn life. Brendon doesn’t feel bad for being angry at Ryan anymore. He wants them to still be friends, but Spencer’s right: Ryan’s got to figure out his own shit, and that means his shit isn’t Brendon’s to deal with anymore.  
  
“I’m glad we’ll have you on tour,” Pete says. “It’ll be like old times.”  
  
 _Except how everything’s different_ , Brendon thinks. But he knows what Pete means – back when Brendon met Mark Hoppus for the first time and nearly lost his shit, he was so nervous. Back in the beginning, when every city was new, when each night was a gamble, when it all felt lucky and incredible and scary. Back when Brendon would wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, thinking:  _Holy shit, this is real_.   
  
Maybe Brendon needs a little of that right now – a little fear, a little adrenaline. Boredom’s been doing Brendon no favors. He’s ready to be terrified.  
  
  
*  
  
That night Brendon and Spencer shove the dogs into the car and go to the beach. It’s warm and muggy, the air heavy with rain that will never come. They let the dogs off the leash and spread a blanket out on the sand and crack open a couple of Coronas.  
  
“It doesn’t feel real,” Spencer says suddenly.  
  
“Yeah,” Brendon says, taking a long swallow of beer.  
  
But it does. It feels real, and yet it feels like nothing’s changed, because nothing has. He hasn’t seen Jon and Ryan since South Africa. They haven’t made music together for months.   
  
This band has been breaking up for a long time.  
  
“I always kind of thought that if the band broke up, it’d be because of Ryan,” Spencer says.  
  
“Well, he did put the band together,” Brendon says. “I guess that means he gets to break it up too.”  
  
“No, no, I mean…” Spencer sighs. He brushes a long strand of his hair out of his face. “Ryan’s always got to be the star of his own life. It’s been that way forever. But a band is like a team. I’m not sure Ryan ever got that.”  
  
It’s true. No matter how many times Brendon took that stage as lead singer, everywhere else he always felt like he was singing back-up.  
  
“I’m a pretty good team player,” Brendon says.  
  
“I know,” Spencer says. “That’s why I wanted to do this with you.”  
  
Brendon looks up. Spencer’s staring at him, eyes a silvery blue in the moonlight. His lips are chapped, and his fingertips are yellow.  
  
“Maybe we should bring back the exclamation point,” Brendon says.   
  
Spencer laughs. “Just to fuck with people?”  
  
“No,” Brendon says. “Because we’re excited.”  
  
Spencer raises his Corona, and Brendon does the same.  
  
“To the new Panic!” Spencer says.   
  
“To the new Panic,” Brendon says. “May it be more team-tastic and drama-free.”  
  
“Amen to that,” Spencer says.   
  
They clink bottles, the sound echoing over the hushed thrum of the waves.  
  
*  
  
Adam gets Brendon tickets to the show at the Staples Center –- piece of cake.   
  
“Second row center,” Adam says over the phone. “I want to be able to see you.”  
  
Brendon’s skin feels hot. “I thought the important thing was that I be able to see  _you_.”  
  
“That’s what you think,” Adam says slyly, and hangs up.  
  
The tricky part is convincing Spencer to go with him. Or, more specifically, convincing Spencer to go with him without telling him that he’s planning on fucking one of the Idols afterward. Most specifically, the one who will probably be wearing platform boots and a lot of eyeliner.  
  
It’s a weird conversation.  
  
Brendon is making scrambled eggs for Spencer in his kitchen. They’ve got rehearsal this afternoon with Ian and Dallon for the tour, and Brendon’s jittery as fuck – which is maybe why he blurted out the thing about the concert tickets without realizing he’d have to explain himself.  
  
“You want to go  _where_?”  
  
“Idols Live,” Brendon says. “The American Idol tour.”  
  
“Seriously?” Spencer says.   
  
“A friend got me tickets,” Brendon says. “You want to come?”  
  
Spencer’s face keeps getting more and more incredulous.   
  
“Are you fucking with me?” Spencer asks. “I mean…Brendon. It’s  _American Idol._ ”  
  
“Yeah, and we watched some of this season together!” Brendon says. “There were talented people this year! Like – that girl, Allison. You thought she was hot.”  
  
“Before I found out she was, like, twelve years old – oh my God, you’re serious!”  
  
Brendon sighs. “Yes. I’m serious.”  
  
Spencer stares at him for a long moment.  
  
“Okay,” Spencer says. “Because I’m your friend, I’ll go with you.”  
  
Brendon feels relieved.  
  
“But there is no statute of limitations on how long I can make fun of you for this,” Spencer says. “Just so you know.”  
  
 _Oh, Spencer_ , Brendon thinks.  _Just you wait_.   
  
*  
  
Brendon is standing in front of his second-row seats, guarding his beer from the overenthusiastic teenage girls flailing around next to him. They’re four acts in – still four to go before Adam – and Brendon’s starting to regret showing up on time. Spencer has long since abandoned him to go smoke cigarettes outside.  
  
“Oh my God, are you the Clockwork Orange boy?”  
  
Brendon spins around to see a small, wiry guy wearing tight-as-sin black pants, a vest and boots.   
  
“I’m Cheeks, or Brad,” he says. He leans forward, clearly unsteady on his feet. “We met before. At Mark’s?”  
  
Brendon remembers now – they met the same night Brendon met Adam, when they all bonded over Shane Drake and costumes. It’s a testament to how fascinated he was by Adam that he barely registered Brad, since Brad is a fairly memorable guy – with or without enough glitter eyeshadow to outfit a 1986 senior prom, which he’s currently sporting.  
  
“I remember,” Brendon says. “Good to see you, man.”  
  
Brad gives him a tilted smile. “You look like someone who hasn’t had nearly enough to drink.”  
  
Brendon’s trying to stay fairly sober this evening – he wants the experience to remain clear in his mind. But they’re nearing act number five, and honestly, he’s wishing he’d figured out a way to smuggle in some good tequila.  
  
“This is all so much better when you’ve done shots,” Brad says, leaning into Brendon. “Trust me.”  
  
“I’m sure that’s true,” Brendon says. “I’m designated driver tonight, I’m afraid.”  
  
Brad’s smile turns predatory. “You are so adorable! I am not at all surprised that Adam wants to fuck you.”  
  
Brendon blinks. “What?”  
  
“Well, you’re obviously his type,” Brad says. “Hello, we dated forever, and you and I? There’s a bit of a resemblance, sweetie. Short, skinny, pretty dark-haired guys? Adam’s not exactly a magical mystery.”  
  
He never thought of it that way – if Adam’s been attracted to Brendon since the beginning, he’s done an awfully good job of hiding it.  
  
“I guess so,” Brendon says, and Brad laughs as if he said something funny.  
  
“Oh, honey,” Brad says. “He’s going to blow your mind.”  
  
The next acts pass in a blur. Brendon’s happily distracted by Brad’s drunken antics and his own persistent fantasies of just what this night might entail. He fidgets and sips his beer and tries to will away his more inappropriate thoughts.  
  
Spencer returns during Danny’s set, smelling of smoke and weed, and nudges him with his shoulder. “Is this thing over yet?”  
  
“Shhhh,” Brendon tells him, because Adam’s finally on.  
  
Adam rises from the stage wearing a leather coat covered in spikes and rivets, looking like a soldier on some post-apocalyptic battlefield, and launches into “Whole Lotta Love” with a note that raises the hair on Brendon’s arms.  
  
This is the Adam Brendon knows, the Adam who smiles his easy smile and listens when Brendon talks and makes self-deprecating jokes about his freckly skin and “baby fat.” But this is also Adam the performer, Adam who sings like he’s constructed entirely of melody and rhythm, like his whole body exists to contain and release notes. Brendon watches and forgets to breathe, finds himself gasping halfway through the song.   
  
Adam reaches out and strokes the microphone stand and winks, and Brendon feels like Courtney Cox in the “Dancing in the Dark” video. All he wants is for Adam to pull him up there on stage. All he wants is to be closer, closer, closer.  
  
“He’s pretty good,” Spencer says with his typical penchant for understatement, and sips his beer.  
  
“He’s amazing,” Brendon says.   
  
He doesn’t even care that Spencer’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind.   
  
*  
  
Backstage, Brendon finds Adam easily enough – he’s the one surrounded by a million fans who’ve somehow managed to get passes, and he’s signing things and talking and laughing.   
  
To anyone else, he probably looks fine, completely natural in this role, but Brendon can tell Adam’s exhausted. He can see it in the glassy tint of his eyes and the droop of his shoulders. All of it says,  _Save me. Let me rest_.  
  
“You’re here!” Adam says, and Brendon feels a little bad when he pushes past a group of teenage girls to catch Brendon up in a hug.  
  
“Of course I’m here,” Brendon says, slightly muffled by Adam’s shoulder. “You got me second-row tickets!”  
  
“Damn right I did,” Adam says, pulling back to look at him, laughter dancing in his eyes. “Only the best for the best—“  
  
Brendon doesn’t know exactly what Adam was going to say next, but he’s guessing it wasn’t PG-rated. He pulls back to say, “Adam, this is Spencer. Spencer’s the drummer for Panic! at the Disco.”  
  
Spencer’s eyes are wide. He sticks out his hand, and Adam takes it, shaking firmly. “Uh…hi.”  
  
“Hi, Spencer,” Adam says, and grins. “It’s wonderful to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”  
  
Spencer glances at Brendon, arching his eyebrows as if to say,  _and why haven’t I heard anything about him?_  
  
Thankfully, Spencer was raised with some tact, and so he turns to Adam and says, “Nice to meet you too, dude. Great show.”  
  
“Thank you,” Adam says. “One of these days I’m going to come to one of your shows, when I’m not quite so booked up.”  
  
“Excellent,” Spencer says, and he looks charmed by Adam in the way everyone always is – the only way you can react to a 6’2” guy wearing skintight leather and glitter who has the manners of a Southern gentleman.  
  
“Brendon,” Adam says, “can I talk to you for a minute?”  
  
Adam’s fingers curl around his bicep, and his eyes heat.   
  
“Sure,” Brendon says, and lets Adam drag him into a hallway.  
  
The second they’re out of sight, Adam shoves Brendon up against the wall, pinning his wrists to the cool plaster.  
  
“You look so hot,” Adam says. “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?”  
  
Brendon’s heart is thumping. “I have some idea, yeah,” he murmurs.  
  
“Smartass,” Adam says, and leans in.  
  
Adam’s mouth is hot and quick, dropping kisses along Brendon’s jaw line. He sucks a light bruise into the skin of Brendon’s neck, not enough to be noticeable, only a reminder for Brendon when he looks in the mirror. He tangles a hand in Adam’s hair, feeling it sticky with gel, soft between his fingers.   
  
“There’s going to be a party,” Adam says, and sure enough, Brendon hears a thumping beat start in the other room. “You should come.”  
  
“I thought the party was in your pants,” Brendon says.  
  
Adam laughs. “Yeah, well, it is. But this is my hometown, Brendon. I can’t blow off all my friends, no matter how much I want to take you somewhere and do unspeakable things to you.”  
  
Brendon takes in a shuddering breath. “So this is what you do – tease the hell out of me and then make me go somewhere and meet all your friends?”  
  
“You act like it’s a one-way street,” Adam whispers, hand dropping to Brendon’s waist, bringing their bodies flush. Brendon can feel Adam, hot and hard through his tight jeans. “We’ll make an appearance, okay? But I’m spending the night with you.”  
  
Adam’s kiss is an affirmation, a little wet with lip gloss. He tastes like cherry and breath mints and something terrifying and new.  
  
“Okay then,” Brendon says, taking Adam’s hand. “Let’s dance.”  
  
*  
  
“That is not fair. Stop that.”  
  
“Stop what?” Brendon asks, pressing himself against Adam’s back and sliding his hands around his waist.  
  
Adam fumbles with the key card in the lock of their hotel room, and manages to drop it when Brendon gropes him through the front of his pants. “Look what you did.”  
  
“Yeah, I feel terrible,” Brendon drawls, leans down and picks up the key card, running it through the reader and pushing the door open.  
  
“Show off,” Adam grumbles.  
  
“What can I say, I’m good with my hands,” Brendon leers, and Adam shoves him inside and up against the wall, wedging a leg between his legs.  
  
“I don’t even know why I like you,” Adam says. His eyes are a bright, intense blue.  
  
“I’m hot,” Brendon says. “And Brad says I’m totally your type.”  
  
Adam narrows his eyes. “God,  _Brad_.”  
  
“I’m Brendon,” Brendon says, sliding one hand under Adam’s shirt and scraping a nail over his nipple. “That’s so you know what to scream.”  
  
“You’re funny,” Adam says softly, and nips at Brendon’s neck, making him suck in a breath.  
  
“Also, I’m a singer,” Brendon says. “Did you know that?”  
  
“I did,” Adam says, licking Brendon’s ear and making him shiver. “Not that you sing for me.”  
  
Brendon blinks. “That’s not true, I totally—”  
  
“I’ve never heard you sing,” Adam says. “Not live, anyway.”  
  
Brendon swallows. It’s true – he hasn’t been doing much singing lately, not for anyone.   
  
“I’d like to hear you sing,” Adam whispers. “If you want to sing for me.”  
  
“What should I sing?” Brendon asks, his voice hoarse.  
  
Adam shrugs. “Whatever you want. Whatever you’re feeling.”  
  
Brendon sags a little against the wall, lets Adam hold him up. Adam runs his hand through Brendon’s hair, trailing his finger over Brendon’s cheek.  
  
“ _It’s been too hard living_ ,” Brendon begins. “ _But I’m afraid to die…_ ”  
  
Adam hums, a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.  
  
“ _Because I don’t know what’s up there, beyond the sky…_ ”  
  
Adam’s hand tightens on Brendon’s waist. His eyes hold Brendon’s.  
  
Brendon inhales.  
  
“ _It’s been a loooong, a long time coming, but I know—_ ”  


 

 

 

 


End file.
